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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22760926">Merciful Sundays</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow'>sagiow</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Mercy Street (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, five sentence fics, maybe more than 5 sentences, still very short</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 11:48:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>904</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22760926</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Little blurbs from Tumblr prompts</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Emma Green/Henry Hopkins, Jedediah "Jed" Foster/Mary Phinney</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Alice Green stood in the doorway, framed so beautifully and so evocative of an oil painting that Emma thought she must have practised the pose</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you to @fericita, @tortoiseshells and @middlemarch for the prompts!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Alice Green stood in the doorway, framed so beautifully and so evocative of an oil painting that Emma thought she must have practiced the pose.</p>
<p>Or perhaps it simply was how all proper Southern ladies stood in doorways nowadays, their skirt hems unstained by the muddy March snow as they visited the parish, distributing comforts to those unable to attend the Sunday service. The rich fabric of their dress unmarred by dirty little hands or the cough of a consumptive patient. Their delicate hands in doeskin gloves unscourged by the harshness of felting wool or the bitter winter cold. Their artfully dressed hair under their stylish hat unstreaked of white, be it from age, worry, or the morning’s bread baking.Their youthful face unlined from too many a night spent rocking a fretful child or patiently tending a laboring mother.</p>
<p>And she would not trade any of it for the world.</p>
<p>“Dearest Alice! Welcome to Westfield. Do come in, quick, the girls have been dying to see you.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. It was eerie, how quickly a ward fell silent after Matron shouted, “mail!”</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was eerie, how quickly a ward fell silent after Matron shouted, “mail!”. It was pathetically touching to hear the noise drop to a murmur, even the moans and sighs of pain falling mute, in the hope of hearing one’s name spoken, of a few words addressed to them to break the monotony of convalescence; words of longing from a sweetheart, of pride from a father, of love from a mother, with perhaps a tin of butter tarts or shortbreads to bring a sweeter taste of home.</p><p>In moments of frustration, when her calls went unheeded, Bridget often thought of using the word to easily gains everyone’s attention, but decided just as quickly against it: the boys had received their fair share of cruelty as it was. She herself has refused to delegate this task, judging she had already received all the letters that could possibly bring her sorrow.</p><p>Efficiently, she distributed the day’s haul, with a wink or smile to every beaming lucky soldier, and a fortifying hand to the shoulder of those less blessed. The bounty was poor, and she was soon left with a single envelope; the return address brought her to a standstill in the middle of the ward.</p><p>Anne was the first to notice her hesitation; at once, she was by her side. “Bridget, what’s the matter?” she asked, for only her friend to hear. </p><p>“It’s from Boston.” Matron said, first shakily, then repeated louder, steadier. “From Nurse Mary’s address. But not from her hand”. </p><p>It was the staff’s turn to drop their task, fall silent and look at her apprehensively. Matron sighed, suddenly feeling all her years and more again; after all, there had been at least one more letter that could bring her sorrow.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. She’d never had such sympathy for Odysseus before, when it came to taking the long way home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She’d never had such sympathy for Odysseus before, when it came to taking the long way home. To spend ten years cursed by Poseidon on the turbulent seas, fighting all matters of creatures, resisting seductive sorceresses and enchanting mermaids, sailing the thinnest line between Scylla and Charybdis. Ten years yearning for spouse and family, for home, hoping against all hope it still was<em> their</em> home, <em>their</em> spouse, and that all that they held dear had not passed on to another, their prolonged absence mistaken for inevitable demise.</p>
<p>She had clutched Odysseus to her chest, under his Roman name, as she navigated the monster-filled waves of fever that were her constant companions. The steamboat rocked in the choppy waters, the lantern above her swinging dangerously upon its hook, casting nefarious shadows against the cabin’s wooden walls. In the darkness rose rose hideous beasts, a tangle of tentacles, sharp teeth, claws and evil eyes, against which she forcefully shut her own, her lips quivering in a silent plea for mercy. </p>
<p>For comfort, she grasped the little book tighter in her hand, and the man who had gifted it to her, tighter in her heart. Her wasted body focused on the pressure of his lips upon her burning forehead, the linger of his fingers against hers as he inexorably let her go. Her confused mind held on to his parting words, his beautiful promise of an imminent reunion.</p>
<p>“That’s what Odysseus also promised,” whispered the shadow at her left, in a deep, wet, sloshing sound.</p>
<p>“Ten years,” growled the one at her right. “Fighting the gods and all their cursed creations.”</p>
<p>“I’ll fight them too,” she fought them then.</p>
<p>“Hmmm, maybe <em>you</em> will…” the treacherous waters lapped at her ears, circling ever closer. “But what of your sweetheart?”</p>
<p>A harmony of hisses rose in agreement. “They aren’t all Penelopes, to virtuously resist courtiers and suitors, all too eager to lay claim to your crown, and they to let them have it.”</p>
<p>“He won’t! He’ll stay true,” she cried, but the image of the French artist flooded her mind, all sweet smiles and all-seeing eyes, and she was doomed.</p>
<p>At once, Scylla was over her chest, her tentacles wrapping around her throat, her numerous heads snarling, baring triple rows of fearsome fangs. She gasped for air, but only inhaled Charybdis, her lungs filling with the foaming waters of despair. She tried to cry out, but her words were lost in the gurgling, wheezing cough of the drowned. </p>
<p>The water rose, filling her eyes, spilling over her cheeks like the ocean at the edge of the world, pushing her over to the bottomless abyss.</p>
<p>The book dropped, and she sunk.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Leaving this open should more inspiring prompts magically appear... This was fun (and painless: NO PLOT!)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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